The Hearse Song
by LadyBonBon
Summary: There would be no surviving—only death. Whether you died first or last or somewhere in the middle was all up to the Yautja hunting you.
1. Chapter 1

_Hearse—_

Monica Edwards stared out at the vast, lush jungle with a face of stone. Though her eye lids sagged a bit from the sedative that they had given her, her other facial features appeared blank. As if her mind had been emptied and all that remained was vast endless space.

She didn't appear nervous, like the others, or angry or scared. She was unmovable, unreadable, and blank. While the others around her jumped and shook or growled aggressively through their drugged induced state, she remained impassive. Her eyes remained sagged but focused on the jungle's edge rather than the ruckus going on around her. The loud noises were lost on her.

She ignored the guards and the guns they pointed at her back. She ignored the static sound of one the men's tasers. She ignored the others who jumped and fidgeted in aggravation and nervousness. She ignored their pleas and cries for forgiveness of their sins and their sorrow filled wails of unjust treatment. As if these things said during times of desperation and uncertainty would spare them from their deserved fate and allow them to continue on with their pitiful existence. As if God could hear them and answer their selfish prayers, as if they deserved better.

They didn't.

Monica ignored all of this. She did not wail in sorrow. She did not jump in anticipation. She did not fidget in fear. She remained steady. The chains binding her wrists made no noise for she made no movement. She didn't repent for her sins, she didn't beg for forgiveness, and she didn't complain of injustice. _What is justice to these men?_

She felt none of these things.

It was hard to feel much of anything when you spent seven years bottling in every bit of emotion that could be seen as a weakness and hiding it away so that it ate away at you from the inside out.

_"Rise and shine Ms. Mona. You've been chosen this year._" _The warden called from the other side of her cell. "Seven years here, Ms. Mona, and you've managed to slip by without being nabbed, but the system's finally got you today, yes ma'am, finally got Ms. Mona." _

Monica had expected it, eventually, had been waiting for it for some time. She had sat in her cell on death row waiting patiently for seven years for her turn. Waited for the warden to stand before her barred cell door and announce that she had been chosen. Chosen for the hunt.

Each year on the same day each state with a death penalty would choose at random via computers a few death row inmates from various prisons and fly them down to the lush jungle of the Amazon. There they would be offered up to be hunted, to be slaughtered by the beings that _passively_ towered over Earth.

_"They don't like bad bloods, Ms. Mona. But they do like to hunt them." The Warden directed a few guards to cuff her. "I hear they like to rip the spines from their prey while they're still alive and kicking along with the skull." He sneered at her, "It'll be just what you deserve. You've lucked out for seven years, but your free ride has just come to an end."_

Monica looked down at her grey prison garb. This would be the last outfit she'd ever wear? This grey sack that hung loosely on her body and made her skin itch? Her thin mouth traveled downward as the idea crossed her mind. Dying wasn't an issue. She didn't mind the thought. You have a lot of times to think about death when you sit in a cell on death row and wait for your turn.

It was a lot different now than it was twenty-five years ago. Where people were euthanized by lethal injection or the electric chair. But, as they often do, things change. Now a days, they were offered up for the Yautja to be used as prey for the hunt. To be used as sport, as if they were in ancient Greece and being thrown in the gladiatorial ring only they wouldn't have a fighting chance because _who_ could stand toe to toe with a being that was over seven feet tall and weighed a good ton with muscles bulging at every part of their large body?

Monica heard the guards raise their guns to point at her and the other's heads as one guard went around and began uncuffing the inmates. There was a commotion as one prisoner charged and made a run for it. The large man didn't get far before he was tackled and sedated. They wouldn't kill him; they had a quota to meet after all. Three Yautja were to hunt a total of thirty _bad bloods_. It had to be thirty. One year an inmate had been shot escaping and there had been hell to pay, or so she had heard from a drunken guard one night, when a hunter claimed he had been cut short a trophy because of _ooman_ inefficiency.

The guard stopped in front of her and unlocked her cuffs. Monica felt the guns train on her even more once her restraints had been taken off. They wouldn't shoot her, though. They _couldn't_ shoot her. But that didn't stop them from trying to appear threatening. Yet, they weren't the ones that she needed to be afraid of now, were they?

"There ya go, Ms. Mona." He must've read the paper and seen her front page spot in it several years ago because she didn't recognize him from her prison. But who didn't know of her after all this time? His sarcasm was evident and she bit back a retort. _Ms. Mona, Ms. Mona…_

She had gotten the nickname Ms. Mona when one of the detectives interrogating her upon her arrest began reading aloud every detail of her crime and caught her smiling towards the end. A small, barely there smile but a smile nonetheless. He had gotten so angry.

_"Yew got yew a, Mona smile," He had said while tossing her file on the table. "You think it's funny what yew did to that man, Ms. Mona?"_

The tabloids had gotten wind of it and had latched onto the name Ms. Mona. The reporter who had covered her story had even come up with a little jingle to go with her new nickname. _Ms. Mona, Ms. Mona/She burned her man alive/Hadn't a care/To play very fair/Too bad, he was a nice guy!_

Needless to say, she hadn't quite appreciated the jingle along with the nickname. The jingle wasn't even all that clever. The name stuck with a vengeance, though; guards or prisoners, she had even caught her lawyer slip and say it, wouldn't call her Monica. It was always Ms. Mona. _Ms. Mona, Ms. Mona…_

A government official, a big wig, stepped to the forefront and began to speak. He talked of the honor they would have of being sacrificed for their country. How this was the best way for them to be forgiven of their sins and crimes against humanity. How scum like them were being used for the greater good of peace. Monica didn't pay attention. What was there to listen to?

The reality of it was, was that they would run around in a blind panic for a week, at the most, and wait to be picked off by a blaster canon, a long spear, or various other weapons the Yautja had in their arsenal. There would be no surviving—only death. Whether you died first or last or somewhere in the middle was all up to the Yautja hunting you.

Death was inevitable.

"Now that you have been briefed, ready yourselves." His deep voice was loud in the stillness. "Under the insistence of the Yautja, you will each have the chance to arm yourselves." This was not startling in the least; the Yautja didn't hunt prey that couldn't defend themselves. It wasn't worth it. Where was the honor? "Just past the edge of the Jungle you will find various weapons that we and the Yautja welcome you to use at your discretion." He sent the prisoners a smile, "Best of luck, you're going to need it."

They were pushed forwards by the tips of the barrels of the guns and made to move toward the dense jungle. Monica noticed that some prisoners even began running and she figured they wanted to at least secure a weapon before anyone else did in hopes that it would up their chance at survival.

She didn't run. What was the point?

Beside her a woman shook uncontrollably. Monica noticed that she wasn't shaking from fear or anxiety. _Addict…_She was obviously going through withdrawals and by the look on her face she looked about ready to purge her stomach onto the ground. She too moved slowly into the jungle while her eyes darted about sporadically and her hands shook. Her wild eyes landed on Monica.

"I-I know you," She forced out as she followed after her. Monica tried to ignore her; she wasn't here to make friends. "You're Ms. Mona." She shook more and looked behind her watching the jungle's edge disappear from sight. They would soon be coming upon the weapons—not that Monica would be taking any. "Didn't you—didn't you kill your husband?" Monica said nothing. "Burned him alive; didn't they make a song out of it?"

The twitching woman was frail, Monica noticed, frail with blonde hair hanging in strings about her face. Her pale eyes were fixed on her shaking hands as she spoke. "Too bad, he was a nice guy." She hummed with a cracked voice.

As it always did, the song—especially the end—irked her. "No man," Monica whispered as she came to a stop, "Is as nice as they sound." Her companion said nothing to this, but merely stared at the empty crates before them. There were no more weapons, it would seem. Those who had run ahead seemed to have grabbed more than their share. As if the extra fire power would protect them from the predators.

"There's no weapons left," The woman shook even more. "We'll die for sure." She brought her hands up to her lips where they shook against the pale skin there. Monica studied her, noticing the wrinkles that defined her age as being older than herself by a good eight years. Older, smaller, weaker—a target.

"Whether we had them or not, it wouldn't make much of a difference." Monica couldn't help the harsh tone of her words. Years spent on death row had not made her soft and hope filled and full of Godly devotion. "We'll die either way. If not by the Yautja then by this jungle and the things it has in it."

"I heard," The woman licked her lips, "That if you kill one, you're free to go. All your past crimes are forgiven."

"Whatever you heard, it's bullshit." The woman flinched at Monica's words. "Do you want to know what's going to happen? You and I and everyone else that's been chosen are going to die. We're not going to live and ride off into the sunset with our records clear. We're going to be hunted down like animals and slaughtered by the Yautja. There's no room for hope. There's no room for survival."

The woman began to cry. Tears spilled down her cheeks quietly and her breaths quickened. "I-I don't want to die." Her shoulders shook violently and Monica frowned at the pitiful sight the woman presented.

"How long have you been on death row?"

The woman's lips trembled as she turned her watery eyes to Monica's towering face. "Last—last week I was placed in my cell." She took a deep breath, but it failed to calm her. "I-I didn't think my name would be—would be—would be called!" She cried loudly and her wails echoed through the quiet of the jungle. Monica made a move to silence her; she didn't want to be the center of attention just yet.

"Hey," She whispered harshly, "Hey!" It was to no avail as the woman kept wailing loudly in incoherent words and sounds. With quick movements Monica pulled a hand back and slapped the woman's face as hard as she could causing her head to turn from the force. The resounding smack was loud and the hysterical woman went quiet as she held a hand to her cheek. Her glassy eyes were fixed on Monica's frowning face. "Keep quiet or go away." They stood there in silence, staring at one another. Monica took a bit of pity on her and asked, "What's your name?"

The woman took in a shallow breath and shivered a bit. "Lucille, Lucille Perry."

"Lucille, just because we're going to die doesn't mean I want to die right at this moment. Do you understand?" Lucille nodded quickly, "Don't make any more noise unless absolutely necessary. If I have to, Lucille, I'll kill you to shut you up." Lucille nodded again, this time more slowly. "Good."

They continued on in silence with only the echoing of animals and the buzzing of bugs keeping them company. Lucille's orange jumper contrasted greatly with the green mesh around them and Monica caught herself thinking of her as a liability, easily spotted and easily taken down. She was shivering more often now—the shakes as they were called—and her face had paled as an hour went by and the temperature began to drop.

The trees towered over them. They grew so high that the sun only shot down in bursts here and there making the jungle dark and eerie in most places. Monica felt Lucille come right up behind her and she had to catch herself from turning sharply and giving her a good punch in the face in self defense. She had to tell herself that Lucille was _not_ trying to stab her in the back. A tap at her shoulder caused her to turn.

"I feel like we're being watched." She whispered in Monica's ear and Monica shivered at the sensation of her breath so close to her sensitive skin.

"We probably are," Monica said while glancing around at the tree limbs above them. "Don't think about it, think about something else."

Lucille was quiet for a few minutes before she spoke again. "Why did you kill your husband?" She whispered and Monica tensed at the intrusion upon her person.

"Think about something else," She bit out.

"Did he beat you?" Lucille didn't relent on the thought and Monica begrudgingly supposed that it was better than crying and wailing like an infant—not much better.

"No."

"Did you do it for the insurance money?" She tried again.

"No."

Lucille paused and thought for a moment, "Was he verbally abusive? Did he belittle you? Call you names?"

"No."

Lucille came right up to walk beside her and Monica just noticed how much taller she was than Lucille. If she had to hazard a guess, Monica would say that Lucille was about five two while she herself was a good six feet tall. Height was a trait she got from her mother's side something that had made every boy in school shy away from her._ Here comes Hightower!_

"Did he cheat on you?"

"No." Aaron had never cheated on her. He had always loved her to some extent. _"It's okay; we can start all over now." _

Lucille hummed, "So you really did just kill him to kill him then?" Her shaking had stopped and Monica wondered if it was because she was focusing on something other than the need for a snort of cocaine.

"I really don't want to talk about it anymore."

Lucille looked at her closely with those dull eyes and pushed her stringy blonde hair back from her face. "Are you sorry you killed him?"

Monica paused, not that she needed to think about it, but because no one had ever asked her if she was sorry. If she was sorry for what she did and how she went about doing it. "No." _Ms. Mona Ms. Mona, she burned her man alive…too bad, he was a nice guy…_

To their right there was a loud scream and gun fire that resounded through the area causing the two women to still. Lucille's breathing became erratic again and Monica stood frozen for a few moments deciding the best options for survival. Did she want to survive? That was idealistic and she was a realist. There was going to be no survival here—but she didn't want to die just yet.

Looking to the frozen Lucille, she grabbed her arm and pulled her to the left. The farther they were from the action the better they were off, right? She hadn't time to think it over, she merely pulled Lucille and the two took off in a sprint the opposite way, as far from danger as possible. Gun fire sounded behind them as well as more screaming and Monica thought that if she ever survived this through whatever miracle, she'd have nightmares for the rest of her life.

They ran for what seemed like forever before coming to a stop in front of a wide river. Lucille was still shaking from the sounds of screaming and Monica felt as if she could actually still hear the screams, loud and piercing in her ears. But she couldn't. She _shouldn't. _They were too far away.

"We're going to cross the river," She said turning to the shaking mess beside her. Lucille shook her head in refusal and Monica frowned. "Stay here alone, then."

She let go of her and made her way into the river not caring what creatures might be inhabiting it; she was only worried about the things outside of the water at the moment. She got up to her shoulders in the murky water when she heard Lucille shriek.

She turned in the water slowly and looked towards the bank only to find Lucille pointing at something beside her. Monica turned to her right and looked at the water and then back at Lucille who merely pointed frantically at the same spot again.

Monica turned back and looked closely at the spot. The water was dirty and dark, there was no use trying to see under it. She focused intently and saw a ripple. A ripple from the water being around something instead of something coming up from underneath it. Then she froze.

A clicking growl reached her ears and she looked up from the water to see the largest thing she'd ever seen uncloaking itself right in front of her. Her only thought was that she was going to die…

* * *

_"I wanted an ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said: 'What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course: 'It must have courage, cunning, and above all, it must be able to reason."_

* * *

A/N: Okay, I know I haven't updated _Entitlement_, yet. I'm working on it—it's coming along sloooow. Hopefully you'll see it up by Sunday. But, while I was working on it I began relieving my mental block with some writing that was in the same universe as _Entitlement._ And this came up.

Brownie points if you can tell me where the quote above came from.

~LadyB


	2. Chapter 2

_Hearse—_

For the longest of moments Monica didn't breathe. Her body went still while she stared at the large Yautja towering over her in the dark water. While her mind registered that it was there, her eyes didn't take in any detail other than a mass of muscle and loaded weaponry.

From the banks there was movement and Monica thought Lucille was making a break for it. She wouldn't have put it past the junky. In fact, Monica probably would have done the same.

The beast turned his head towards the embankment and cocked it to the side a bit as if listening and registering some sound that went unnoticed by Monica herself. She followed his gaze expecting to see the retreating orange jumper that was Lucille heading far into the brush in retreat.

But Lucille had not moved. As if encased in cement, she stood frozen with a wide eyed expression on her face. That wasn't what the thing's focus was on, though. He stared intently at the space to Lucille's right. Suddenly the brush rustled vigorously and the creature's growl turned completely towards the jungle and the rustling plant life. Within mere moments, a rather large man burst through the brush with two machine guns firing noisily at the Yautja.

Without another thought, Monica dove into the water and disappeared under its muddy surface only to resurface on the other side of the river. She looked back at Lucille and, in a last effort to help the shaking woman, motioned at her again.

Lucille was staring at the man as he sent a wave of projectile metal towards the Yautja with fierce determination. Her eyes flickered a moment and she looked across the river to see Monica motioning for her with haste. Her hands shook violently, but she understood and edged into the water as quietly as possible, away from the suicidal man and the growling Yautja whose wrist blades had sprung to life.

She submerged herself in the water and her and her orange jumper were gone from sight for a few passing breaths before she reemerged near the opposite bank by Monica. Her lips shook and her eyes were still wide when Monica reached down and pulled her from the water. Her blonde hair clung to her pale scalp mirroring Monica's own dark, short hair. They said nothing as they took off only hearing a piece of the man's words as he ran out of ammo.

"Come and get me, you ugly mother fu—."

They ran for a few minutes before the two collapsed in a heap on the jungle floor panting with exhaustion. Lucille began to shake again, but this time the withdrawals were not the cause. Her eyes leaked and the liquid traveled down her cheeks while her body shook in time with her quick intakes of air. Monica said nothing, only listened to her silent sobs as the older woman cried for a man she did not know and for the inevitable outcome they were only prolonging.

Monica recalled the last time she cried. She could count back to the exact day for it was an unforgettable moment in time. She could remember screaming and kicking in anger and refusal as they dragged her out of her burning home. Her desperate pleas and screams fell on deaf ears as the firefighters brought her out of the crumbling house and set her beside her laughing husband.

She had cried then.

Monica didn't cry now, though. Instead she lay still and silent on the ground listening to the sobs of Lucille. Sometimes she'd catch a word: _not fair, dead, Percy…_

"Who's Percy?" Monica asked her and she felt Lucille stiffen beside her.

"That's my baby," She whispered and her tears began to gush from her eyes and down her face leaving wet trails in their wake. After a moment she was quiet and her sobs drained away. "I always wanted to be a good mother," She said as she sat up. Her hands were shaking. "Then I killed my neighbor."

Monica said nothing as she watched Lucille stare out into the brush lost in her thoughts of her little boy. "I had children." She said staring up at the tree tops. "Two beautiful children, a boy and a girl."

Lucille turned towards her, "Where are they now?"

"Dead." Monica heard Lucille shift closer so that now they were sitting back to back with Monica's head towering over Lucille's. "Why'd you kill your neighbor?" She asked quietly.

"Quid pro quo," Lucille answered and her tone was so serious that Monica found herself smiling in spite of the situation. "Yes or no…" Within moments they were both giggling which soon evolved into laughter that echoed loudly in the darkening hours of the jungle.

There surroundings were a blur as they laughed. The fact that they were being hunted didn't occur to them at the moment; they were too caught up in the nostalgia of the good ol' days. Before they were warts on the ass of society. Before they were sinners of humanity. When their lives had been meaningful and wonderful, before reality hit and they were pulled into the world of imperfection and human insanity.

No other mistress was crueler than reality.

"I was too young to be married," Monica stated as their laughter began to die. Not wanting to let silence envelope them, she continued. "I was too young and too stupid to know any better." Lucille pressed against her back in a comforting gesture.

"How old?"

"I was eighteen." She took in a deep breath to calm her raging nerves. "My mother begged me not to, but I wanted that fairytale life that women always seemed to have on TV whenever they got married. I wanted to live happily ever after with my prince charming. And for awhile I got just that." Monica frowned then and stood so abruptly that Lucille fell over onto the dirt floor. Monica's hands clenched tightly and turned white, "But look where I am now, Lucille, does it look like happily ever afters happen? I learned the hard way that fairytales don't exist."

Lucille sat quietly on the ground staring intently at the shaking form of Monica. "My neighbor was an older woman." She said quietly, her fingers digging vigorously into the dirt. "I would've sworn she was the devil. She would dump her trash in our yard and scream and holler at all hours of the night. She even killed our dog, I _know_ she did." Some tears escaped the corners of her eyes. "I was already a single mother, working two jobs and trying to raise my little boy. She was making it worse. So I decided to kill her.

"I planned it all out. I left my son at the daycare and I waited for that old bitch to come back from her grocery shopping and then, when she was home, I went into the house and shot her." She paused as more tears leaked from her eyes. "I might have shot her five or six times and then stuffed her body in a bag and threw it into the nearest river. They found her three days later."

Lucille went silent as her fingers worked their way into the dirt. Her orange jumper gleamed like a beacon would, drawing in wary sailors with its comforting light only to be crushed by the surrounding, jagged rocks. "I had had it all planned out, but had left so much evidence behind. And who would believe that this old woman was the devil? How she tormented me so?" Her fingers went deeper into the ground. "The jury came back within the hour with a verdict of guilty, and then I was sentenced to death row." She looked up at Monica with desperate eyes, "I wasn't, _I'm not_, insane, Ms. Mona. I'm just tired."

"I didn't have a trial," Monica said to her. "Pled guilty, even called the cops myself, and allowed them to take me, charge me, and place me on death row." _"You're the scum of the earth! Who does this to some innocent man?"_

"Didn't you want them to understand?" Lucille stood and moved closer towards her, "Didn't you want them to know _why_? Didn't you want to try for some kind of justice?"

"Justice? Justice?" Monica's anger returned to the forefront and Lucille stepped back quickly in fear of being stricken by her. "Don't be naïve, Lucille; justice is as much of a myth as perfection. There is no justice." She paused and her lip quivered a bit before she shook her head. "And since there was no justice, I created justice from scratch. That's why I did it, Lucille. That's why he's dead!"

"Because of justice?" She asked confused as to why this warranted killing her _nice guy_ husband.

"Because of the lack of justice," Monica whispered.

Behind them the plant life rustled to life and both women turned around to face the sound. Lucille's hands began shaking again and the woman moved to stand behind Monica. Out from the shadows came, not the nightmare they were expecting but a lithe older man with a tight grip on a rather large gun. Behind him came two other men. One a rather large, even larger than the suicidal man they had glimpsed earlier, black man with each hand carrying a small silver gun. His jumper, which matched Lucille's in color, was ripped and torn at the arms and legs allowing him to run more efficiently. The second man was smaller than both of his companions and appeared to be Latino, if Monica was judging his coloring right.

In the Latino's hands was, what she thought was, a good size machine gun. Monica couldn't quite tell; she couldn't place guns too well. His prison garb looked a bit like a nurse's scrub uniform with its light color and loose fit.

"You ladies a bit loud, aren'cha?" The older one in the front said. His grey uniform was torn in various places and was covered in dirt. Monica's eyes traveled to the number on his uniform, _18765_. She felt Lucille flinch from behind her. "All alone out hur with nothing to use to protect y'all from the big bad Yautja."

Monica didn't say anything; she was afraid if she did then whatever came out would only serve to make things worse. The older man grinned and Monica saw his teeth were a grotesque color of yellow. "We wur just thinking about settting up camp for the night." He looked around the small clearing, "This looks like the perfect spot, don't it?"

He turned to his two companions and cocked his head. The two other men grinned and moved closer into the clearing. Monica didn't move as they came closer.

"You young ladies don't mind, do ya?" The older man asked as he sat in the clearing in front of them. The two others circled behind Monica and sat, cutting them off from running into the brush there. Lucille clutched at Monica's jumper.

"No, sir," Monica answered politely. "We would," she paused and forced a smile, "welcome the company." She motioned for Lucille to sit down with her.

"Great!" He grinned and his yellow teeth shone brightly in the darkening jungle. "Where are my manners? My name is Richard C. Manning, been a death row inmate for twenty-one years." His lips twisted into a sadistic grin. "Luckiest man on death row, they said. Hadn't had my name pulled till twenty-one years later." He nodded his head to the two men who sat behind her. "That's Jerome Hanson, so he says, and Romano Garcia. Just met them today while we was picking up our guns. Thought it was better to walk together than wonder around alone. Ya know with all those monsters out there."

"I'm Mona," Monica said, "And this is Percy." She nodded towards Lucille who frowned at the name. "Didn't get any weapons, wasn't fast enough."

"Ms. Mona?" Richard asked, "Or is it Mrs.?" He smiled tightly at her.

"It's just Ms. Mona." _She burned her man alive…to play very fair…_ "Was on death row for seven years. I was a lucky one too, for awhile."

"Divorced Ms. Mona?" Monica felt one of her eyes twitch and she fought the urge to stand up and strangle him. Behind her one of the two men snickered. _The Latino_.

"A widow, Mr. Manning." She sent him a smile that felt plastic. "I killed my husband." Manning's smile never wavered as he regarded her with cool eyes. They glowed a brilliant blue that seemed to make him more approachable. But his tight smile, the smile that stretched across his face and magnified the wrinkles there, told a different story.

Monica had heard that the eyes were the window to the soul; that they told the world everything. She had to disagree. Her husband's eyes had always been joy filled, full of mirth and contentment. But, when he had smiled at her that day. When he had come home for the first time in months and smiled that tight smile with his eyes shining with happiness, she _could_ tell. Any doubts had left her then. _That disgusting smile. That disgusting, tight smile. _

"I see," He said and the large gun in his hands was shifted to his lap. "Well, you're among like minded people, Ms. Mona. We're all murderers here!" He laughed loudly and his head went back at the force of it. "And-and what about your little friend, there?" He pointed a thin finger at Lucille who shrunk back behind her.

"Percy here murdered her neighbor." Monica said with her voice tight. The less information they gave, the better off they would be. Monica glanced at the gun in Manning's hands and studied it for a brief moment before turning her eyes away.

"That so?" From a pocket on his jumper he pulled out a packet of cigarettes, most of which were gone, and a lighter. Placing one in his mouth he lit and took a long drag before blowing out the smoke. He nodded towards Monica, "Want one, Darlin'?" Monica shook her head and he shrugged before tossing the pack over the two women's heads and towards his two companions.

They sat in an awkward silence for awhile before Manning spoke again. "Me, I was charged with the rape and murder of five—six women." He sent her a sly smile, "Jerome responsible for those police murders up in Wyoming and Romano said he killed his girlfriend for sleepin' with some other Latino. Ain't that right, Romano?"

Monica heard the Latino laugh, "Oh yeah, got that bitch _good_."

"Why don't we stick together for awhile, just to keep each other safe?" Manning suggested lifting his gun up a bit. The barrel glinted when hit by a beam of moonlight. Monica's eyes traveled back to the number on Manning's jumper, _18765_. "We can just camp out here for the night, stay all quiet like, and stay together tomorrow." His teeth were barred in what was supposedly a smile. "Two women, such as yourselves, should not wonder around here alone just waiting to be picked off—no matter what they've done."

"That's very generous of you, Mr. Manning." Monica wanted to decline. Wanted to tell him and his two friends to shove off and worry about themselves rather than two women that they could easily take advantage of. But the gun gleamed again in his hands and she thought better of it. Best to wait. "Thank you."

"Oh, it's of no trouble to me, Ms. Mona. In fact," His tongue flicked out and swept over his lips, "It would be our pleasure." From behind, Romano let out a snicker while Jerome remained silent. Lucille gripped her jumper and Monica could feel the addict's hands shaking against her back.

_Ms. Mona, Ms. Mona/She burned her man alive/hadn't a care/to play very fair/ too bad, he was a nice guy…_

* * *

"Okay, I'm placing bets on who's gunna last the longest." Officer Braxton passed around a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. The other officers poured themselves a shot and chugged it back with haste, some grimacing at the strong taste. "My money's on that guy, Jerome."

"I thought they take out the biggest ones first?" A younger officer asked face still pinched from the whiskey.

"Nah, son, they take out the weakest all on the same day." Another answered helping himself to more whiskey. "They like to save the best for the _real _hunt."

"Yeah, they toy with the remaining—oh what is it? Ten? Twelve?—stalking them, turning them against one another, before taking their skulls as trophies." Braxton said as he kicked back in the wood chair. "And my money's on Jerome!"

Unknown to the inmates, a tracking device was placed on each of them. It recorded their movements and monitored their vital signs. Little blinking lights on a screen showed where each one was, if they were injured, or if they were dead.

These devices were placed inside each of the inmates, just under the skin of their wrist. They were given these implants because the officers didn't want any prisoner making it out of the jungle and into civilization. Not that they could get passed the Yautja, but it was better to be cautious. Though the chance of any of the prisoners escaping was very slim.

"What about that guy, Butch? Big meaty fella with a fetish for meat cleavers and carving knives," One of them asked.

"That guy's some crazy too!" Another one said in agreement.

"Isn't Ms. Mona out there?" The younger officer asked as he passed on another shot of whiskey. "You think she'll make it through today?"

Braxton hummed in thought for a moment, "She's not really a serial murderer, but she is pretty dangerous. Killed that husband of hers. Didn't she tie him up in a rockin' chair and pour gasoline all over his body before pulling up a chair and sitting down to watch?"

"Yeah, yeah! She pulled up the chair and waited for him to wake up 'cuz she had drugged him or somethin'."

"Really?" The younger officer asked.

"You betcha," Another answered. "Waited for him to wake up before she lit a cigarette and listened to him beg for his life before throwing the cig right on him. Lit that man up just like a Christmas tree!" The officer threw his head back and let out a loud laugh.

"If she does make it past today, then it's because she's tall as hell." Braxton tossed back a shot before slamming the glass on the table and reaching for the whiskey. "Tall and intimidating as all get out. But she won't last long."

"What about that Manning fellow? What'd they call him on death row? Lucky Dick? Cuz' he was on there for about twenty-one years, right?"

"Yup, raped and killed all those women. He's not the strongest or the biggest, but I think he'll survive tonight just because he's the most dangerous." Braxton answered with a solemn voice. He was not yet as drunk as he wanted to be. Maybe another shot would help? He reached for the bottle again only to find it empty.

The younger officer looked up, "How's he the most dangerous?"

"You ain't been on the force long enough to know." Braxton stared right through the younger man as he talked. "All those men and women out there are dangerous, mostly 'cuz they are big, strong, and nasty. Yet, they have a hope that they can and _will_ survive this. Manning has no hope. Has nothing to lose." He took another shot, "That's when men are most dangerous, when they have nothing to lose and know it."

"I feel sorry for anybody he comes into contact with, no matter what they've done." One of the others said and the table went quiet.

Out in the jungle various screams and pleas for mercy were heard…

* * *

"_Nonsense,"__ laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes-the hunters and the huntees."_

* * *

A/N: And here's the next part. I'm really starting to like delving into the human psych and poking and prodding at it with a big stick! Let me know what you think, and kudos to all those who _knew_ where the quote was from. And the worthless aurthor has not finished Entitlement chapter 8, sad face.

~LadyB


	3. Chapter 3

_Hearse—_

Manning's cold eyes kept Monica from falling asleep, unlike Lucille and the other two men who snored and dreamed in false content. He was leaning against the trunk of a large tree with his gun propped up underneath his arms. His eyes bore into her's and Monica suppressed a shiver. He hadn't closed his eyes to sleep yet; he just sat and watched her, as if staring into the depths of her very soul.

"You know, _Ms. Mona,_ you remind me of my mother." He whispered this to her with a tight smile across his face. "She was an upstandin' lady, for the most part. Yet, no matter what my daddy did he could never keep 'er from working the pole." His cold eyes kept her pinned. Monica said nothing to him but kept eye contacted. It was the first thing she had learned in prison; do not submit. To submit was to be weak. To be weak was to be dead. "She was a good mother, though. She used to sing me a lullaby at night 'fore I'd go to sleep. It was a song her daddy would sing to her and then she would sing it to me."

"Is that so, Mr. Manning?" She asked politely.

He inclined his head, "Do you know the hearse song, Ms. Mona?" His smile, if it was at all possible, stretched across his face even more.

"I don't believe so, Mr. Manning." Being polite was becoming more of a chore than she realized it was worth. Monica shifted slightly; her legs were falling asleep.

"It's an old song that dates back to world war one," Manning said as he moved the gun from under his arms to his shoulder. "The Americans and British would sing it during the war. It was my grandfather's favorite song, my mother's favorite song, and now, Ms. Mona, it's my favorite song."

"I see," She didn't know what else she could say. Her comfort had dropped significantly.

"My favorite part was always the beginning and then the very end." His eyes moved from her and dropped to his hands which rested in his lap. He began to hum before he started the song, "Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by, for you may be the next to die?" He stopped and chuckled quietly. "Best get some sleep, Ms. Mona. Gots us a long day tomorrow."

Without another word he closed his blue eyes and leaned back against the large tree trunk with a smile still plastered to his face. He began to hum again, and Monica knew that he was humming that song—_The Hearse Song_. It gave her chills…

After an hour the humming stopped and Manning's breathing evened out.

The hours creeped by, and Monica had still not faded off to sleep. Sweat clung to her and made the grey jumper itch and stink. Beside her Lucille shook and her breath came out in rasps. The shaking woman groaned and shifted so that her back was flush against Monica's.

"Ms. Mona," She rasped out all the while shaking against Monica's back.

"Yeah," Monica replied in barely a whisper.

"Do you ever pray?" Lucille asked between rasps. Monica could feel the sweat from Lucille soak through the orange jumper and into her own grey one. She couldn't really find the energy to care or be disgusted by the thought. Instead, Monica focused on the question Lucille asked her.

"I don't think God wants to hear what I have to say," she answered.

"I'll pray for you." Lucille's head leaned back and touched her own hair with Monica's. Their hair melding together, black and pale blonde mixing.

"I don't want you to pray for me; you're an idiot." Monica's voice lacked any harsh tones; she was just too tired. "If I wanted an idiot to pray for me, I'd do it myself." Lucille let out a laugh and then quickly became quiet when Romano grunted in his sleep.

"I don't want to stay with them, Ms. Mona." Lucille whispered to her in the silence. Monica couldn't help but agree with her.

"I know," Monica whispered back. "How quiet can you be, Lucille?"

"Very, Ms. Mona."

"Good." Monica eased up to stand on her shaking feet. She eyed the gun that rested lightly on Manning's shoulder. She would need to be careful. "Do exactly as I tell you and we'll live through this moment. I can't promise that we'll survive this hunt, but I promise you, Lucille, that we won't die by their hands."

Lucille nodded and stood quietly to stand beside Monica. Her hands were shaking and her body was wracked with shivers. Monica motioned for her to stay in one place to which Lucille nodded quickly. Monica stepped forward towards the sleeping Manning, her eyes locked on his still body looking for any sign of wakefulness. _Steady, easy, careful_.

She got closer to him all the while holding her breath so as not to make a sound. She crept closer, close enough so that she could feel the breath escape from his slightly open lips. Closer. _Closer. Closer.__**Closer…**_

Her hand reached for the gun that lay so still and motionless when she heard it. Barely there, but she heard it. Monica's eyes went wide as a soft hum that dipped and rose in various pitches escaped Manning's mouth. The tune was ever so familiar.

The humming stopped when words to the ever so famillar tune came out. _"Don't you ever laugh when the hearse drives by and for you may be the next to die?"_ Manning's eyes were closed, but a smile stretched across that thin face that had Monica's short hair standing straight up. _"They wrap you up in a big white sheet from your head down to your feet."_ From behind her she heard Lucille gasp and let out a startled cry, but Monica dared not turn around. _"They put you in a big black box and cover you over with dirt and rocks. All goes well for about a week, then your coffin begins to leak." _

Monica remained bent over with her hand hovering near the gun while the words came out in a dreadful tune from the man's lips. It didn't even appear as if they were moving at all. As if the words just ghosted from his mouth. _"The worms crawl in,"_ His eyes snapped open at this and a thin arm shot out and gripped her wrist harshly. Manning's smile never fell, _"The worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle in your snout."_

He stood up with his hand still locked onto Monica's wrist and though she towered over him by a good head, Monica felt herself incapable of movement. _"They eat your eyes."_ Manning leaned in and placed his mouth—as best he could—right near her ear. _"They eat your nose…they eat the jelly between your toes."_

Lucille was crying now. Her sobs loud as she struggled against someone who was holding her. A laugh was heard and Monica knew instantly that the Latino was the one restraining the crying, shaking woman. The song drifted into her ear once more. _"A big green worm with rolling eyes crawls in your stomach and out your eyes." _His words had lost their playful, sadistic tune and were now harsh and unforgiving. His grip on her wrist tightened. _"Your stomach turns a slimey green and __**pus**__ pours out like whipping cream._" She saw him lick his dry lips and then watched as they cracked and bled when he pulled them tighter across his face.

He pulled her down closer to his face and gave her a kiss on the cheek. A wet kiss that left her cheek tingling and she fought the urge to wipe the residue away. "Are you paying attention now, Monica?" Monica's eyes went wide as she stared at him. "Because this is my favorite part." He let out a soft chuckle and Monica swallowed the lump that stuck to the inside of her throat. _"You'll spread it on a piece of bread, and that's what you eat when you are __**dead.**_"

His eyes, Monica found, were wide and wild. They appeared as if some haze had descended on them and began to cloud the already misty blue depths. Her eyes traveled from his eyes to his cracked lips. They bled and the blood dripped down his chin leaving a red trail in its wake.

She heard the futile _let me go, let me go_ coming from Lucille behind her and then the cry of pain as Romano must have gripped her tighter. Monica dared not look back.

"Let go," She whispered hoarsely to Manning. "Let go or you'll regret it." Monica felt as if she were playing a poker game. The two cards had been shown on the table and the other players had folded leaving only her and Manning with hands to be played. Monica regarded her hand quickly and decided that she had shit. But the best of poker players didn't have good hands—they had good faces.

"Ms. _Mona_," Manning said as his tongue swept across his chin and lapped up the blood that dripped down there. "I dare you."

They stared at each other as if in a stalemate. Manning had called for a show of her hand and Monica hesitated. She could not reach the gun, but she didn't think she had to. She just had to be quick enough, strong enough, and she would—

Monica froze as she focused on the three red dots that appeared upon Manning's forehead. As if sensing it, Manning touched his forehead and the red dots moved to his hand. Monica chanced a glance behind her and saw that another set of red dots was placed on the Latino's forehead.

The game changed and Monica had no choice but to act upon the current distraction. With a great heave she pushed Manning to the ground using her height to her advantage—_Here comes Hightower—_and spun around quickly. Taking advantage of Romano's distraction, Monica pulled the still sobbing Lucille out of his now loose grip.

Lucille stood stunned for a moment before she went to pick up the gun that Romano had dropped. Monica moved to yank it away from her but was pulled back by a now angry Manning. He gripped her short hair painfully and yanked her head back hard causing her to yell in pain. Her hands went up to claw at his offending hand.

Then the first shot was fired but it wasn't from the gun of a human. An energy blast sounded and they were thrown a ways away from the impact. Monica groaned and sat up.

Her heart pounded, blood rushed, and adrenaline coursed through her body. Without another thought she was up and moving in the opposite direction. Her feet pounded against the dirt floor of the jungle while plant life collided with her speeding form. She didn't care. She couldn't care.

She had to get out! She had to survive!

And for the first time in years, Monica felt the will to live. She felt the _need_ to survive. She had to. Had to. **Had to!**

After what seemed like a long time, Monica stopped and fell to her knees gasping for air as sweat poured down her face and soaked her grey jumper. She heard footsteps coming fast up behind her.

Monica staggered to her feet and whirled around to see Lucille standing behind her. Her face was pale and her eyes seemed to sag. She wasn't straining to breathe which Monica found odd, but she shrugged it off as she herself struggled to take in much needed air.

"You left me," Lucille said. Her voice seemed to echo around Monica and leave her ears ringing. She tried to ignore it.

"Sorry," Monica said between gasps of breath. "I—I'm sorry." Her dark hair clung to her scalp as her face seemed to melt as sweat dripped from various spots on her face. "You didn't bring that gun, did you?" She closed her eyes and tried focus on breathing.

Lucille cocked her head to the side and her pale blonde hair fell loosely to the side. "The gun? No, no I didn't." She licked her lips and Monica thought that she must have bit her tongue when the energy blast made contacted with Romano because it was a blue color. She looked at her empty, pale hands in confusion. "I meant to—I went to—but I must have dropped it."

"We can't have guns, Lucille."Monica stood tall once she had finally caught her breath. "It'll only make us more of a target if we have them." She looked Lucille over; she had stopped shaking at least. "You're not hurt are you?"

Lucille shook her head and Monica saw a piece of her pale locks fall to the ground. She opened her mouth to point it out but stopped herself. She didn't need her freaking out anymore than she needed those Yautja coming after them with more energy blasters.

"Okay," Monica nodded and turned forward, "Let's not stay in this one spot any longer than we have to." And with that they were both off. Lucille following Monica at a slight distance and limping slightly.

Another lock fell out of her pale scalp…

* * *

Manning grunted as he pulled himself up with the barrel of the gun. Jerome stood off to the side watching the tree lines with a blank look in his dark eyes. Blood trickled down his left arm from a cut he got from the blast. He ignored the pain.

Manning staggered to his feet and stepped over Romano's dark, burned carcass. _Disgusting Latino, _he thought to himself as he made his way over to Jerome's side.

"That bitch is going to die," Manning said as he spit some blood into the brush. A pain in his mouth caused him to reach in deep with long fingers and yank out the loose molar and throw it to the ground. He spit blood again. "You see which way?" He asked the big man who was staring off.

Jerome grunted and nodded his head towards the direction he'd seen. Manning snarled and moved forward while Jerome stopped and pried a gun from a burned body on the ground. They would need the extra fire power. He followed after Manning with thunderous steps while the world around them was silent.

"Couldn't have run _that_ far," Manning muttered.

On the horizon the sun was just beginning to peak over and spill its light across the jungle. The start of the second day was upon them…

* * *

"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?"

* * *

_A/N: Annnnd here's where the title comes from. See what I did there? Eh? _

_Enjoy and let me know what you think; I enjoy your enthusiastic responses!_

_~LadyB_


	4. Chapter 4

_Hearse—_

The sun was easing its way upward, higher and higher into the sky while it beat down on Monica's skin causing her to sweat even more than she already was. She glanced at Lucille and noticed that it didn't seem to bother her. The pale woman walked silently with a slight limp just behind her not saying a word. Monica noticed that she had stopped shaking as well; more locks had fallen out of her scalp and Monica had to repress the shiver that threatened to wrack through her whole body as she stared at the thinning hair. Lucille's pale scalp shone through.

She dared not say anything about it, though. Lucille was very sensitive, and she didn't want the woman to fret over her appearance.

It was _so_ hot. It was getting to the point that Monica's sweat was beginning to evaporate on her hot skin. To make things worse, she was beginning to become dehydrated and hungry. She had had nothing to eat yesterday besides the meal she had been given by the guards early in the morning. Cold scrambled eggs, burnt toast, and the choice between milk, water, or orange juice.

At the thought, her stomach let loose a rumble that echoed loudly. Monica found herself embarrassed that Lucille had heard such a thing and turned to the silent woman.

"Guess we'll have to find some food." Monica said as she stopped her slow walk and looked around at the growing plant life. She could hardly see much in her exhausted state. All the trees began to blur and blend together in a big green mesh or nothing. She shook her head and tried to focus.

"There." Lucille's voice startled her and she turned to where the woman was pointing at a tall, thin tree. Upon further examination Monica saw that it was a banana tree. That was as good as anything at the moment. She would just have to find something to drink along the way.

Monica studied it and saw that there would be no way of climbing it for there were no branches to really grasp to ease herself up with. The branches it did have were far too slim to carry her weight. She looked on the ground around her and spotted a large stone resting between two thick roots. Picking it up and feeling its heavy weight, she threw it towards a bushel of bananas. The stone made contact but only caused the fruit to sway a bit before resting comfortably back in its place. She exhaled angrily and tried again.

After five more tries Monica was able to knock the fruit down and mentally gave herself a pat on the back for a job well done. Picking up the fruit, she offered a few to Lucille. Half and half, even though she had done all the work Lucille had still spotted them and Monica guessed that counted for something.

"Make it last," she said with her arm outstretched holding the yellow fruit. Lucille shook her head.

"I'm not hungry," she said. Monica gave her an incredulous look.

"What do you mean you're not hungry? It's been a day since you've even eaten." Monica thrust the food out once again for Lucille to take, but the woman shook her head sadly. Another lock fell out of her hair, yet it went unnoticed by Lucille.

"I'm not hungry." Her voice echoed again in Monica's ears and sent chills down her back. Goose flesh rose to the occasion and stood on end.

Monica frowned at her and brought the fruit back. "Fine, but don't expect me to give you any when your finally hungry." She looked back down at the bananas and frowned; they would fill both her hands. _Too much to carry but too precious to waste_ provided her subconscious. _I'll need to—_

"You could make a satchel," Lucille said and Monica nodded at the thought, as if she had been thinking along the same lines. _I had, hadn't I? _"Tear your clothes." Lucille whispered and Monica nodded again thinking the same thing.

Monica ripped the top of her grey jumper off and began twisting it into a series of knots and loops making it into a small makeshift bag. She was left in only the bottom of her grey jumper that acted like loose pants and a black sports bra. It felt good to be relieved of the sweaty top, but the sun's rays were harsh against the sensitive skin of her shoulders, and Monica knew she'd have sunburn later.

She placed all but one banana into the handmade satchel and began eating and walking again. There was really no point to walking._ Walking to our deaths…the final run._ They weren't trying to get anywhere; where could they go? But if they stayed in one spot too long they would attract unwanted company of the Yautja kind, or worse, Manning would catch up with them, if he was indeed coming for them. _He is…He's coming for you._

Monica had a feeling he was. She could tell he had too much pride to be bested by the same sex he tormented for a good few years before becoming incarcerated. He would be coming for them.

"We'll have to be careful; Manning will be coming for us." Monica said out loud as they walked.

"Us?" Lucille echoed back to her.

"Yes, us. He's not too keen on people getting away from him alive." Monica swallowed her nervousness, "We're not going to let him win, Lucille. We didn't come here to let _him_ kill us." _Yet, we don't have any weapons…dead women marching._

"You're unarmed," Lucille mimicked her own thoughts and Monica frowned. "No guns, no help, as good as dead."

"Shut up, Lucille."Monica said with bite while throwing away the peal of the banana. The fact that Lucille was so passive about it made Monica even angrier.

"You know it's true," Her voice was low and soft, and yet, to Monica, it seemed to explode around her and through her ear drums and bury deep within her brain. She clutched either side of her head and flinched as her it began to throb and surge with pain. What was going on? "He's going to come for you—."

"Us!" Monica shouted, and she turned around to face her companion only to give a shriek at the image Lucille presented. She backed away from her quickly with wide eyes. She began to dry heave and she quickly brought a hand up to her mouth as if to block any on-coming vomit. A wasted effort she was sure.

Lucille's hair had just about fallen out leaving her pale scalp glimmering. The pale skin was stretched tightly over her skull leaving Monica with nothing to the imagination. Her right eye had fallen out of its socket and hung just below her cheek bone barely hanging on by its optic nerve. The pale blue eye still followed Monica's movements, though. Lucille's face was sunken in and her breathing came out in rasps. Yet, with all this, she didn't even seem to notice. It was as if she was oblivious to the fact that she was falling apart. As if her body's pieces refused to stay together and thought it better to disengage themselves from each other and go their separate ways.

"What's wrong?" Lucille whispered to her while taking a tentative step forward. Monica hurried to back away from the disfigured woman. Lucille still walked with a limp and Monica noticed that it was because her ankle was twisted around and her foot was facing the opposite way. _Disgusting_…

"What the hell happened to you, Lucille?" The woman in question looked down at her body and ran a thin pale hand over her bald head. She then brought a hand to the hanging eyeball and flicked it and Monica watched disgusted as it swung over Lucille's cheek. She picked the eyeball up from where it hung and began to stuff the nerve back into the its socket, feeding the loose flesh through the hole with an air of nonchalance. She then pushed the eyeball hard and it bulged from the pressure before going into the hole with a 'pop'.

This time Monica did throw up. She turned her head to the side and emptied what was left in her already almost empty stomach onto the jungle floor. She heard Lucille move closer to her. She moved to back away again but stumbled in the process and then gave up entirely when she heaved again.

Monica saw from her peripheral vision that Lucille had coasted a hand over Monica's back, but Monica hadn't felt it. Perplexed, Monica reached out a hand to touch Lucille's leg and her hand moved through the appendage with ease. Like she wasn't even there at all.

She took in a ragged breath before running her hand through Lucille again. And again. And again. Until finally she realized, "You're not real." She barely forced the whisper out of her throat.

Lucille frowned, "Not anymore…"

Monica promptly fainted, passing out right beside the greenish hued contents of her stomach. The world was black.

* * *

They watched from the trees as the female gathered food for herself and then watched with confusion as she seemed to offer it to the nothingness behind her. They watched as she argued with nothing, yell at nothing, and then, finally, back away in fear from this _nothing_ and proceed to relieve her stomach of its contents—to the two smaller ones clenched their mandibles together in disgust. The female fainted not long after.

They were thoroughly confused. One of the smaller ones clicked that they should end it of its obvious insanity even if it was a bad blood. Another said that to eat it would mean to take the risk of _catching_ what the female had. The largest one had to agree. Eating it might transfer whatever insanity plagued it. _Should they put it out of its misery?_ They clicked in discussion over it.

A noise came from the brush near the female and they put off their discussion to wait and observe. They crouched, fully cloaked, upon thick tree branches high up in the tree line and watched as a large male came through the brush carrying a large knife. The stayed focused and still, with small eyes fixed on the lying female and the arrival of the male.

They waited…

* * *

_You have to wake up!_

Monica heard Lucille's voice echo around her in the black that smothered Monica's conscious. It was so dark. What was going on? Where was she? Why was it so dark…

_Ms. Mona, you need to wake up now! Please!_

Lucille? Was that her voice? Images flashed through her mind. Snap shots of Lucille's decaying body came to mind. Her sunken face. Her loose eyeball. Lucille was dead it seemed. How'd she die? When did she die? Who was this talking to her? _I'm losing it…_

_**Ms. Mona! Ms. Mona!**_ It was Lucille again or maybe her mind just thought it was.

Monica tried hard to focus. Then a familiar tune rang through her mind and she tried to place it. Ms. Mona Ms. Mona/ She burned her man alive/ Hadn't a care/ To play very fair/ Too bad, he was a nice guy…

Another tune came through and parted the old tune with a more sinister beat. A deeper voice hummed it and the words came out soft and heavy. _Have you ever laughed as the hearse drives by for you may be the next to die?_ A man appeared in her mind and he screamed and begged for her to stop. He begged for forgiveness. He cried and wailed…_I'm so sorry! _The cried to her as he went up in flames. Who was this man?

_**MS. MONA!**_

The black cleared and Monica's eyes snapped open to peer at a large looming face. She let out a startled gasp and quickly jutted her knee up to come into contact with the large man's groin causing him to groan and stumble away from her. Monica shot up and made it to her feet clumsily to see the man standing straight again. A butcher's knife was held tightly in his hands while his grey prison garb was stained with blood.

"God, Jeezus woman!" He shouted at her, "What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice was deep and heavy. A thick accent from a part of the United States that Monica couldn't place. Towards the north end of the country, maybe? She couldn't quite be sure.

"Why the hell were you standing over me, then?" She took in deep breaths to calm her frayed nerves. "Damn creep!"

The large man snarled at her and swung the butcher's knife around in his anger. Monica flinched slightly as it whizzed through the air, its blood stained blade gave it a more sinister look. "I thought you were dead!"

She pushed her fear back and continued with her façade. "What were you planning on doing? Eat my dead body?" Her chest rose and fell rapidly and her eyes darted about the area in search of a quick escape route from the obviously deranged man.

He snorted and rolled his beady eyes, "That's disgusting." He hacked and then spit on the ground beside him. "What were you doing on the ground anyways? Trying to get yourself killed by the Yautja?"

From beside her, Lucille materialized. Even in her own mind, Lucille was forever a coward at heart. Her hair was all gone now and her skin sagged off her bones. Her two pale blue eyes focused on the man who could not see her. _"Don't tell him anything, Ms. Mona. I think he's dangerous."_

"None of your business what I do," she spat the words at him and he sneered at her tone. She eyed the large knife in his hand warily as it swayed slightly.

"Watch how you talk, woman. I already checked you and you don't have nothing to protect yourself from me." The knife swayed in his hands some more. Gun fire went off in the distance and Monica and the large man turned toward the sound. Shouts of men were heard and the large man with the butcher's knife moved toward the sound. "Gots some company coming."

_"Ms. Mona," Lucille whispered in her ear, "I think you should run now." _

Monica had never heard more truthful words.

* * *

They watched curious as the two oomans conversed. The larger one, the male, had gotten struck by the female in a sore place which had caused them to trill quietly. The larger ooman male shouted at the female who shouted back.

They watched as she turned her head slightly and stared at nothing again and wondered if the male ooman would notice this. He didn't.

The smaller one wondered aloud if the ooman male would attack the female and at the question the others trilled in thought. Would he? Another one asked if it would be honorable for a female, bad blood or not, to be attacked without a weapon.

Should they interfere? The largest crouched silently thinking on this when the sound of ooman weaponry reached them. They turned and scanned the area behind them with their masks. Three, no four ooman heat signatures were closing in. All males. All armed.

The largest one clicked out an order to be ready. They would begin to process of collecting their trophies. They waited for the males to close in with barely concealed excitement.

* * *

_A/N: Creepy enough? I like the thought of delving deep into people's insanity so this was my first jab at it. I'm going to try to go back and forth between this and Entitlement because they'll reference each other every so often and I want to stay on top of it. Let me know what you think._

_~LadyB_


	5. Chapter 5

_Hearse—_

Lucille's idea had validity. It was logical and precise, but Monica found that she couldn't will her body to move as the onslaught of firing bullets and screaming of men closed in on them. Her strong resolve was weakening and she felt her solid walls crumble around her and leave her frozen in fear. Lucille's translucent form stood quietly beside her with her disfigured face squenched up in worry. Worry for _her_. What use did this nonexistent thing have for worrying for her?

The thought made Monica's stomach flip; the men's voices and the gun shouts became louder. Should she run? Her feet twitched and shuffled the dirt that rested on the jungle floor. Her muscles tightened in anticipation. Could she run? She chanced a glance at the still, but not _actually_ there, form of Lucille.

_Run, Ms. Mona. Run._ Her thoughts and Lucille's words seemed to mesh together to the point where she didn't know if she was the one thinking it or if it was Lucille saying it. Or a combination? _You have to run, Ms. Mona._

"Why?" Monica whispered harshly at her. The larger man from across the small area looked at her in confusion. He seemed to have heard her. His attention now came back to the woman whom he found lying in the middle of nowhere.

"What'd ya say?" He shouted, his voice rising to be heard over the shouts and gun fire heading towards them.

_So you can survive_, Lucille whispered in her ear. This, this was illogical. Why try to fight the inevitable? _Do you want them to kill you, Ms. Mona? _No…no she didn't. _Then run, Ms. Mona, and don't look back._

Monica's feet twitched again and she barely registered the movement before she was gone. Her body flashing to the brush to her left, leaving only the stunned man in her wake and his shouts of disbelief. She left behind the screaming of the men, the gun fire, and the fear. Running at full speed through the jungle brush not caring as some of the larger plants hit against her skin with a force leaving pinkening red marks. Some of which bled in small drops.

This would be the second time she ran away from imminent death and deep down Monica felt cowardice creeping below the surface of her skin. She was only postponing what would eventually come to pass. Why run? Why fight it? She began to feel as though she was becoming more and more like Lucille. Monica grit her teeth as her feet pounded against hard dirt. The area around her blurred together.

She was becoming what she had believed Lucille had always been! A coward. Useless. Afraid…

Why was this happening? Her feet slowed to steady thumps until she had stopped completely with sweat and blood dripping from her body. Her anger rose. What was happening to her?

Lucille materialized beside her. Her melting skin and drooping eyeballs, for they both had fallen from their sockets now, did not frighten Monica as much as they had the first time. Her anger blasted forth and she turned to the figment that was her imagination with all of the contempt that had begun to build inside her tired body.

"What are you doing to me!" She screamed at the silent _thing_ that had begun to plague her thoughts. The leach that had begun to strip her of her own thoughts and feed it out to her in mocking tones of the once known Lucille. As if she had seen exactly what was crossing through Monica's cluttered mind, Lucille's face, what she had left of it that is, seemed to display hurt and her lips twisted into a dropping frown.

_I don't understand,_ She said to Monica while reaching out a hand to her. Monica moved away from the offending limb as if she was afraid she would actually be able to feel the touch of the woman this time. A dead touch. _I'm not doing anything. I can't do anything._ Lucille seemed to be pleading with her.

"Yes you are!" Monica shouted her balled fists rising in the air and Lucille backed away a bit at the intimidating figure she posed. "You're turning me into this coward! You're corrupting my thoughts!" Monica took in several deep breaths before continuing, "Why won't you just stay with your burnt corpse! I don't want to be like you!"

_I've done nothing, Ms. Mona, because I'm not real. _Lucille looked down at her disfigured body and began to pop her eyeballs back into their sockets with a sickening 'pop' that caused Monica to wince. _It's you that's done this to yourself. I am merely a figment of what have you created. I can only know what you know. I can only remember what _you_ remember of me. _Lucille grew silent and Monica watched as tears escaped the dead woman's now fixed eyes. _I only relay what goes through your own subconscious. Because that's all I know…_

This confused Monica for a moment before her eyes went wide and her breathing escalated. She tried to calm herself by taking deeper breaths but it did not soothe the panic that was attempting to rise. "I'm becoming insane." Her hands twitched nervously and her feet shifted about. Why was this happening? Why was she cursed? "I'm going crazy." She whispered the words to herself and she could only feel that she deserved it. That she somehow deserved this collapse, her mind being thrown to the slums of the shadows.

_No, no, Ms. Mona. You're—you're not going crazy._ Lucille tried a smile that Monica could only describe as forced—at least, she thought it was forced. She couldn't really know. _You __**are**__ crazy. You are not becoming anything that you haven't always been. You have not changed, Ms. Mona. You are merely coming to terms. _

On cue, Monica's mind replayed the screams of her late husband. His begs for mercy. How he didn't mean it. How it was for the good of both of them. _It was them! They pushed me to do it! _His agony raced through her mind and Monica had to wonder if any sane person _could_ listen to those sounds and watch as she did while their husband burned. They couldn't, could they? Surely not.

Somewhere along the path she had trod, she had snapped. Her mind had broken, shattering into pieces of broken glass that reflected nothing but her tattered shell. But now, now it was being pounded with death all around her and her own demise so close at hand. Monica could recall her own mother kissing her booboos and placing a cartoon Band-Aid on them to make them feel all better.

But you couldn't slap a Band-Aid on this mess that she had become and call it a booboo. A kiss from her mother wasn't going to piece back the sanity Monica had obviously lost. It would seem that Lucille's death had just placed a final stake into her deteriorating but still functional brain causing it to shrivel up and leave her with nothing. Causing her walls to come crumbling down and forcing her to face emotions she had stamped into submission so many years ago.

_Do you want to talk about it?_ Lucille's voice drifted over to her and she let out a harsh laugh at the idea of talking about her problems to one of her main problems. It's a paradox! Isn't it?

"No, I don't think so, Lucille." Monica whispered. "I don't want to talk about my sanity." Monica didn't feel that confused and solemn anymore. In fact, if she was being completely honest with herself, she actually felt better. As if a weight had been lifted. All her problems were still there staring her in the face, but they weren't snarling at her in a rabid state. They calmly regarded her and she them. Honesty is a fool's policy; she had once said to a fellow inmate years ago, honesty only leads to hurt. Lies—

_Lies are the succulent fruit of the forbidden tree,_ Lucille finished for her; _they make everything seem better even though the after bite leaves a hell of a mark._

Monica had been wrong about that though, and wasn't that a bite in the ass? She had lied to herself for so long and it had eaten away at her for years. She let out a chuckle as the thought crossed her mind.

_What are you going to do now, Ms. Mona?_ That was a good question. Would she survive? Could she survive? Looking at it logically there was no possible way she could ever survive any encounter with the Yautja, but she _could_ escape the hands of her fellow human participants.

Manning came to the forefront of her mind and she began to imagine how good it would feel to get her hands around his throat and squeezing and twisting his scrawny neck until his struggles stopped and body grew cold. _Careful, careful…_

She took in a deep breath, but Monica couldn't help but throw blame onto his scraggly shoulders. Blaming him for everything, Lucille's death, her insanity, her fear, everything. He would have to pay, Monica realized. She was going to have to kill him.

A wry grin painted her face in a wicked light and Monica turned her eyes towards the direction she had left. Manning would still live, of this she was sure, from the encounter. He was too manipulative to let himself die; he'd get someone else to die for him. She strained to listen to the gun fire that went off far into the distance that she had run from. He would still live. She looked up at the sky in thought. But it would have to wait until it was dark.

She would be patient…

* * *

The female had run. They had watched through their masks as she spoke to the nothing again before twitching in anticipation and then bolting for the brush as fast as her ooman feet could carry her. The largest male had snorted at her cowardice but then the smallest mentioned that because she had no weapon, she may have thought she had no chance of surviving any encounter with armed ooman males.

A tactical retreat then, they had decided on. The second largest wondered softly, before their prey arrived, that if her obvious sickness could be to blame for her retreat into the dense jungle. Had her mental state been the cause?

They had clicked softly in thought before stilling as their prey confronted each other. They would wonder about the female some other time. Now was the time for the hunt to _really _begin, they had to be ready…

* * *

Monica sat silently on the dirt of the jungle shore and waited. She was calm. She was collected. Her eyes were focused on nothing as she dwelled within her own mind. Thinking had always been a taboo for Monica. If she thought too long, she began to regret, and if she began to regret, she would begin to pity herself.

She didn't like swimming in the pity pool. So for most of her incarceration, Monica would shy away from deep thinking and would mostly bother herself with one of her favorite past times. Monica liked to remember quotes.

Quotes from famous people—singers, actresses, politicians, etc. She enjoyed bringing forth their wit during times of stress and hardships. Even during her happiest times she would enjoy spouting out funny and inspiring quotes to her children and husband and watching as they laughed. A lot of the times they were able to quote along with her on some of her more used ones. David Bowie's "I don't know where I'm going, but I promise it won't be boring" and Dr. Seuss' "I meant what I said and I said what I meant" were among the tops in her family.

Thinking of Dr. Seuss brought another quote to her mind and a smile to her face. Lucille watched as Monica stood, went over to the denser part of the jungle and proceeded to search about until she pulled out a large tree branch that looked almost silly in her smaller hands.

"I have heard there are troubles," She began as she walked to the center of where they had made camp swinging the large branch as she did so. "Of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind." She gave the branch a swing and it whooshed through the air, "But I've brought a big bat. I'm all ready, you see." Another swing, this time much harder than the last. "Now my troubles are going to have trouble with **me**."

_Dr. Seuss_, Lucille said with a lopsided smile on her face. Not that she was smiling that way on purpose, yet, her melted skin dragged half of her lips downward causing her smile to look unnatural and lopsided.

"Yes," Monica replied still testing out her new weapon with various swings.

_How do you suppose you'll beat Manning, or anyone else, with a large stick? They obviously have guns and knives._ Lucille questioned her from her perch and Monica hummed in thought for moment.

"It's not about who's faster, who's bigger, who's stronger, or who has the better weapon." Monica swung the branch harder and her arms swung and jerked with it. "It's all about who wants it most, Lucille. And I want it _very_ badly."

_And will you succeed?_ Lucille asked her voice rising higher.

Monica smiled and finished the quote for her, "Yes! You will indeed! Ninety-eight and three fourths guaranteed!"

Lucille's laughter flowed through Monica's ears and Monica smiled slightly. No matter how weird or awkward it was to be talking to nothing but her own subconscious, she couldn't even begin to care.

* * *

Manning paused in his shooting at the smaller cretin that he had come across while traveling with Jerome and a young man they had come met after setting out to find the bitch he was determined to kill. Something was wrong. He allowed Jerome and the other young man, whose name he couldn't quite recall, to move ahead and chase after the man they hunted while he lingered back on edge for some reason.

They had come across the man when they found him trying to snatch some of their ammo and even Manning's own gun. Needless to say they had pursued him and had even gotten a few good shots but the man persisted in his attempt to escape. But now Manning felt a sense of dread and he stopped his slow walking and watched as Jerome and their other companion chase the thief into the clearing.

That's when he heard their screams and he was glad that he had listened to that small voice in the back of his subconscious. He back tracked clutching the gun closer to himself as their screams echoed from up ahead.

Manning turned his head towards his left and contemplated if he could get away in time and avoid the beasts that hunted them for their heads. Could he? Manning decided to chance it and took off to the left into the dense brush and away from the screaming men as their heads were removed from their bodies and their spines were whipped around in the air in triumph. He very much liked his spine and head attached to his body, thank you.

He didn't want to be next, not when he had a job to do. He continued onward with determination. It wasn't realistic to think he could find the stupid whore seeing as how the Amazon was so big, but Manning was a very optimistic man.

The glass was always half full…

* * *

Monica heard something coming. Running faster and faster as it made its way towards her location. Lucille looked at her from her spot on the ground and worry crossed the figment's face. Monica ignored her and slid the tree branch behind her back. She was going to be prepared. She was going to ready. Because she had to win…

Her breathing escalated. Her pupils dilated. Her heart beat faster. But she did not move. Her muscles were locked in place and none of her appendages found it very important to move. Just as she was when she first started this trip from hell, Monica was the epitome of calm in her outward appearance. She let her surroundings fade and she only focused on the sounds coming towards her. Monica licked her dry lips and winced at the cracks that her tongue found.

"I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind." Deep breath in and then out. Calm, cool, collected. "But I've brought a big bat. I'm all ready, you see." The sounds were getting closer. She could almost see the outline of the figure. _Not Yautja. Too small, too gangly, definently human. _Her hands tightened on the branch that she held behind her. "Now my troubles are going to have trouble with me."

* * *

_"Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded…"_

* * *

_A/N: We're nearing the end! Two more chapters and then this story is over I would say. Such a shame because I LOVE writing this story. It's becoming my favorite. Let me know what you think about what happened and what will happen. And if you can guess the origin of this quote at the end, you are amazing in my book. This quote was going to be in the last one but I find it fits better here._

_Also would like to point out that only one person was able to pin point exactly when Lucille died and __**how**__ she died. I was glad too because I was beginning to think no one would be able to get it and that my clues apparently sucked. Anyway, until next time:_

_~LadyB_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hearse—_

There was one missing, the group of Yautja noticed. Besides the female that had run off before the other ooman males had made it to the clearing, another male was missing. The only reason they noticed this was because there had been six oomans in all, minus the female, and each hunter would collect two as his trophies. Their brother, the smallest of the three, had only gotten one trophy before he cursed his inattentiveness at allowing the other male to escape. One of his other hunt brothers laughed and gave the smaller one a slight shove on the shoulder. The smallest of the three didn't see the humor in it.

The largest of the three focused his mask and did a sequence of scans around the area until he spotted a fresh trail heading in the same direction as the female had gone. The larger Yautja snorted and brought the two skulls that he had collected to his waist and secured them on his belt. The others followed suit.

They would retrieve this ooman male and if they came across the female? One of them clicked that a mercy death would be the best. The others clicked in agreement at this. No trophy need be taken, bad blood or not, for the female didn't quite seem to be in her right mind. She would not make a worthy trophy. If she escaped their notice by the end of the hunt, then they would leave her. Let the jungle or her own kind bring about her death.

With that set, they set off towards the running male jumping carefully and silently through the tree tops barely shaking the branches they jumped from.

* * *

The bark of the branch bit into the palms of her hand, but Monica did not seem aware of this. All that she was aware of was the figure bursting through the clearing. Her guess had been correct as she saw Manning jogging towards the center and staggering to a stop once he saw her. His face was red and his brow was slick with sweat and grim. In his hands his gun remained and Monica's eyes watched it intently before moving to look into Manning's.

His lips quirked into a smile upon finally registering her presence. He steadied himself and propped his gun upon a thin shoulder before speaking.

"I've always been a positive man, Ms. Mona, but to find you so soon is quite the surprise." Just as she remembered it, Manning's voice was smooth and dangerous. "Maybe I was supposed to find you." He gave a laugh as if the thought of fate and God were things that he only bothered with when he himself needed to do so. Monica didn't doubt it; she, too, had succumbed to that same way of thinking at times.

"You were looking for me?" She asked but needn't to for she already knew the answer. Her posture remained the same with her hands gripping the large stick behind her back, hiding it from him.

* * *

They reached the clearing and remained still and silent, ready to intervene at any given time. The smaller one itched to reclaim his trophy but was quick to still when the largest of the three clicked at him harshly.

The largest one wondered what they were conversing about and his slightly smaller brother stepped forward to hear better. Of the three, he was the only one who could understand Ooman speak. He tried his best to translate.

* * *

Her body was ramrod straight with her legs together in a way that would hide the stick's bulk. Her arms felt cramped in their awkward position while the wood bit into her palms and would most certainly leave splinters. Monica ignored this and kept her eyes on Manning.

He grinned at her flashing ugly bloodied teeth at her. The image made her face twist in disgust. "I can't really let you go, can I?" He took a step forward, but Monica forced herself to remain still, never moving. "I don't like," He paused and his face twisted awkwardly as he struggled with the next few words. His lips quivered in preparation for the tirade she was sure he'd unleash. "I don't like to be disrespected, Ms. Mona. I don't like to be played the fool!"

It wasn't wise to goad those you knew were mentally…_ill._ Yet, Monica fownd"You just don't like _women_ to do that, Mr. Manning." Her head came up high and her eyes narrowed, "If I were a man it wouldn't matter as much, right, Mr. Manning?"

He sneered at her before the anger dropped from his face and he was smiling again. "Well isn't that just the pot callin' the kettle black, Ms. Mona. Burned her man alive? Too bad, he was a nice guy!" He laughed loudly as he gestured towards her. "Don't think, no, no, don't you think I haven't heard about you!" Her grip tightened to the branch, but she dared not move, not yet. "We're the same, Ms. Mona. You and I are part of the same whole that people just don't understand!"

She didn't correct him.

Manning watched her closely. He eyed her stiff posture and his eyes danced with delight when he noticed something—something interesting. "People take our actions at face value. They look at what we've done and see what is presented to them. These people that we are surrounded by have a two-dimensional view on things that have only length and height but no width to give it true shape." He wasn't looking at her anymore. Manning had taken it upon himself to pace the clearing from the opposite side all the while gesturing with his arms. Monica remained still as she waited.

* * *

The smallest of them noticed the female's makeshift weapon and wondered if she could actually have enough force and power to kill the male with it. The middle sized Yautja continued to translate for his two hunt brothers.

* * *

She realized at this point that he, who had been trying to hold back the inner insanity that naturally burst forth from him, was slowly losing a grip on what he had actually wanted to do when he had finally found her. At some point, she guessed, Manning had wanted to shame her, kill her, but now that she was here in front of him, he hadn't an idea on how to proceed. And these uncertainties that he had spilled forth in waves of insane babble.

Monica decided to encourage this behavior. "It's hard to condone rape and murder of innocent women." Her eyes scanned the gun in his hands again. "Very hard."

Manning turned back towards her, his face reddening as anger bubbled forth again. He came closer to her and brought his gun's barrel to face her chest. He stared at her while his hands shook with rage. Then he cooled again. His face losing all color and his hands calming, yet the gun remained pointed at her chest and his eyes became hard.

He allowed a hollow laugh to escape his thin, cracked lips, and then continued to talk as if she had said nothing. "Do you know why people see things this way, Ms. Mona? Why they see actions as only they can, flat and one-sided?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Fear, all of life is based on fear." Manning came closer to her and Monica's jaw clenched. "Fear," he said, "is the one true motivation.

"At the core of every action, fear is the motivator. You survive because of a fear of death." His eyes were glazed over as if he wasn't even seeing _her_ anymore. "You marry because of a fear of loneliness. You love because of a fear of being hated. You conform because of a fear of being rejected, cast out, or dubbed a _freak!_ Fear is the key to everything, and it is the reason why everyone else out there," He pointed towards the brush with a boney finger, "will always view _our_ actions as heinous acts." He was but a breath away and Monica felt her body flinch despite herself. "They're afraid of seeing things the way we see them."

If Monica had been asked if she agreed with Manning, she would have lied and said no. She would have said that the ramblings of an insane man were nothing she concerned herself with. But deep within her subconscious a voice was whispering dark, dangerous, things. Things that suggested how _right_ Manning might be and how his words rang true with her so-called heinous acts. She stomped on the small voice and focused on the man in front of her. She couldn't be distracted.

Off to the side, she heard Lucille's image fade and then reappear closer to them. Just beside Manning. _Ms. Mona, _She whispered to her while her pale, translucent hands came up to pet the gun he held in his hands. Manning never even noticed. _I'm scared._ Monica turned her head to focus on the apparition for the first time since Manning had appeared. The deformed figure of her once upon a time companion was—

In a moment Manning threw his gun off to the side and moved to overtake her. Monica replaced her attention back on him and seized the opportunity. She made to move the branch and strike out at Manning to wipe off the smile that had spread across his face as he had talked to her about fear and the true conception of people.

But the strike never came.

* * *

They were enthralled with the scene below them, and they made no move to stop the oomans for it was far too entertaining. The largest leaned forward even more and watched the events unfold.

* * *

Instead, Monica's arms were pinned behind her in the strong grip of Manning's hands. The branch had tumbled to the ground and lay at their feet. Monica trembled a bit as her bravado started to slip. "That's not very nice; is that how you killed your husband? Through tricks?" She started to struggle and brought her knees up to strike him low and hard, but it was all for naught when his legs moved to split and hold her's apart.

"No, that's not how you killed him." His bloodied smile was prominent and Monica moved her head back to put a bit of space between her and the hideous teeth that shown through cracked lips. "Everyone knows how you killed him, right? _Ms. Mona, Ms. Mona,_" He began to sing softly just as he did his favorite song, The Hearse Song. "S_he burned her man alive. Hadn't a care to play very fair, too bad, he was a nice guy._" He chuckled at the last part. "Was he a nice man, Mona? Was he truly?"

She spat in his face. Hocked a big one and let it fly from her mouth and land perfectly on his cheek. He frowned but did not move to wipe it away. The spit wad clung desperately to his sunken in cheek before slowly descending downwards leaving a wet trail in its wake. Monica smirked at her accomplishment and Manning's frown deepened.

"You know what I always found interesting about your case?" She shot him a dark look and he smiled. "You never explained why you killed that man of yours. You never begged for forgiveness, claim that the devil and his demons made you do it, or that you had been abused. You never tried to reason with people, Ms. Mona."

He pulled back from her but his hands kept their grip and his feet kept her legs apart. The awkward position had her arms and legs cramping. "I admired that about you, but then again, I thought it was stupid also, but that's just me." Monica frowned at him. "Why did you kill that man, hmm?" As if on cue her mind began to replay that whole night over and over again. She couldn't make it stop because Manning's words kept coming and leading the images on and letting them fly through her mind. "Why'd you dope him, tie him up, and pour gasoline all over his body while he screamed for mercy when he came to? Why did you sit there and watch him and listen to him beg before lighting a cig and then toss it in next to him? That gasoline lit up fast, didn't it? Almost like a bomb going off as you watched it spread and thicken."

"Shut up," She said fiercely. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Her head shook from side to side as she tried to rid herself of the horrid images that flooded through her brain. Manning laughed loudly and yanked her forward. His breath caressed her face, his nose rushed against hers, and his eyes latched onto her own with a sudden ferocity.

"Okay. An exchange then." He studied her for a moment, "It's only fair that, if I want something, I should give something in return, right?" He nodded in answer to himself while Monica did nothing. "What would you like to know, Ms. Mona?"

_Ms. Mona, Ms. Mona_, Monica heard Lucille sing as the apparition danced behind Manning. _She burned her man alive! Hadn't a care to play very fair, too bad, he was a nice guy!_ Lucille let out a giggle, her previous fears gone it seemed, and continued to dance. Monica turned her focus back on her captor and watched as his fevered eyes danced along with Lucille.

Then Lucille began to sing again, only the song that drifted from her ghostly lips wasn't about _Ms. Mona_. The words had Monica's throat clenching and her stomach dropped down to rest beside her intestines. _Have you ever laughed as the hearse drives by, for you may be the next to die?_

"Well, Ms. Mona, what would you like to know?" Manning hissed at the words at her, but her focus swayed between the two. _They wrap you up in a big white sheet from your head down to your feet._

She tried to tune Lucille out. "Then I'll as you why, Mr. Manning." Lucille danced and frolicked closer to then and Monica tried not to let her eyes follow what was not really there. "Why you've done what you've done." _They put you in a big black box and cover you over with dirt and rocks. _

Manning laughed, "Only fair I suppose." He licked his lips. "You're under the impression that I hate women, Ms. Mona. You think that because I raped and killed all those women that I hated them, when in fact, you couldn't be farther from the truth." He pulled her closer and his lips ghosted over hers; Monica fought the urge to head butt him. "I love women. I love them so much, but, you see, women _don't_ love me, Ms. Mona. They look at me and see a gangly man with no potential." He swallowed and then continued, "I had to make them see that I did have potential. That I was more than just this two dimensional being that they saw. That I had width."

"So you proved it to them by killing them. By proving that you were—."

"Am! I am dangerous!" He snarled in her face and as if to prove it, he leaned forward and bit into the flesh of her neck. He sunk his bloodied teeth into her sweaty skin and held her there like a dog would bite its bitch. As if she was his bitch. Monica tried to throw him off, but his grip only tightened. She whimpered but was able to rein in a full out screech of pain.

* * *

The three Yautja growled, but remained in place. They wanted to see. They wanted to see what the female, insane or not, could do. Their brother continued to translate for them.

* * *

_All goes well for about a week, then your coffin begins to leak._ Lucille pranced behind Monica and she lost focus on her as she couldn't turn her head for fear that Manning would know. And he would know. That she was crazy, that is. He released her from the painful grip of his teeth and smiled as fresh blood was smeared over them. Monica's lips shook and she tried to force back the tears that threatened to fall.

"It all has to do with dimensions, Ms. Mona. That's why." His glazed eyes bore down into hers and she watched the reflection of her face in them. Who was that scared woman in those glazed eyes? Where was the woman who had burned her own love alive and listened to his screams? Where was she now? _The worms crawl, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout. _"It's your turn, Ms. Mona."

"I'd rather not talk about it," She said. It was not what Manning had wanted to hear for her gripped her tighter and bared his teeth at her. "It's really none of your business, Mr. Manning." _They eat your eyes, they eat your nose, they eat the jelly between your toes!_ Lucille shouted this part as she danced and skipped and her flesh fell about all over the small clearing. It wasn't real, Monica had to tell herself. She had to focus on Manning.

"That's **not** what we agreed on." He was very angry, she could tell. Blood was rushing to his face as the pigment changed to that of an almost cherry red. Monica felt his hands twitch and she waited. She glanced at him again.

"I don't make deals with _freaks_." She said softly but sharply and watched as his eyes narrowed. His hands twitched again and Monica tightened the muscles in her arms in preparation. She waited. _A big green worm with rolling eyes crawls in your stomach and out your eyes! _Lucille was beginning to fade in and out as she danced and sang. Or maybe it was just Monica's focus.

"_Freaks_," Manning grounded out through his bloodied, mangled teeth.

Monica forced a smile on her face and tilted her head up. Blood still dripped from where he had bit her, but she ignored it in favor of making her face as smug as she could. "Yeah, _ugly freaks_." Manning's face became even redder and his hands twitched again. Monica took the opportunity.

She quickly leaned back to gain momentum and then thrust her head forward full force. Skulls collided and Manning's grip on her arms was released. Monica never slowed. With as much power as she could muster in her tired body, she slammed her knee into his side.

* * *

The largest grunted in approval and the smallest of the three clicked that if the male could be bested by a mere _sick_ ooman female, then he wasn't worth the trouble of a trophy. The others nodded and continued to watch. It was very interesting.

* * *

He staggered from the force and began gasping as the breath was knocked out of him. Monica didn't have time to piddle fart around. She bent down and grasped the thick branch in her sweating palms and moved toward the still gasping Manning. This time, when she swung the branch, she hit her mark. All her anger and fear fueled her power as the thick branch cracked against his face with a sickening crack.

Manning wasn't dead yet, though. While the hit had thrown him a bit, it hadn't been strong enough to give him anything other than a large bruise that was beginning to bud on the side of his face. He glared at her and stood.

"You bitch," He spit as he tried to regain control of his footing. "You think you're more dangerous than me!" Lucille stopped dancing, Monica noticed, and turned to examine the angry Manning. She smiled and continued on with his favorite song. _Your stomach turns a slimy green and pus pours out like whipping cream._ She whispered this in his ear, but he did not notice Monica's apparition.

"You aren't dangerous, just pathetic." She spat the words at him and watched his anger reach its boiling point. She could almost feel the heat rolling off of his face.

With those words, he charged and Monica braced herself with the branch. She couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face as she watched him run straight towards her ready form. The branch was held high above her shoulders and her knees were bent.

Lucille appeared beside her again, her sagging flesh and jutting out bones were not important at the moment. She began to sing again. _You spread it on a slice of bread…_

… _and that's was you eat when you are dead._

* * *

**"Look at them... Leaning out of the windows, so eager. They can't wait to see it. They have come for the danger…"**

* * *

A/N: I think this has been my favorite chapter so far. One more chapter to go! What do ya think will happen? Hmm? I'm so excited! And a Jurassic park quote!

First kind of fight scene, was it any good?

Until next time:

~LadyB


	7. Chapter 7

_Hearse—_

Aristotle had once said that a person would never be able to do anything in the world without courage. He went on to say that courage was the greatest of qualities of the mind, right next to honor. Monica didn't know if she was being courageous or not by actually fighting Manning. In fact, she didn't really believe in the concept of courage and what it meant to be courageous. She had always told everyone, had often had to remind herself even, that courage didn't exist. There were no courageous people. People were not filled with courage, they were consumed by stupidity. People did things that were "courageous", not because they had something more, something greater, but because they actually had something less.

Monica wasn't so sure if her own expression was true or not anymore. With all the past events coming to the forefront of her mind, she wondered if _she _was the ignorant one. But as she dwelled on the subject, she decided that theirs was a mixture, hers and Aristotle's—and didn't that sound vain? That courage actually _did_ exist. It was just a quality made up of three distinct qualities: stupidity, ignorance, and pride. All terrible qualities to have when found alone in a person, yet combined, they created something that caused people to do incredible things. When they mixed it caused people to do more, to face adversity in spite of fear. For the courageous were not without fear. In fact, as well as she could recall from many different groups of people, courage was not the absence of fear, but merely the realization that something else was more important.

So, she wondered, was she just stupid? Or was she a combination of three horrid qualities to create one decent one? She focused on the man who stood across from her. Anger was prevalent, anger and fear. But it was not courage that drove him on, this she was sure of. It was fear and insanity that combined into a dangerous melting pot within his tattered subconscious.

He came at her with fierceness, and Monica braced herself with the branch riding high above her shoulder. She played the part of a batter at the plate very well. Concentrated, calm, prepared, Monica moved the bat carefully as if this were the swing that would determine the final strike or the winning home run. Manning was but a hair's width away when she swung the branch so as to collide it with his face once more, but he ducked at the last moment causing her swing to swoosh through the air. STRIKE! Power drained from her body as the aimed blow missed. _It costs more energy to swing and miss than to swing and hit,_ she recalled.

Manning was old but fast and he quickly came forward with a hard punch to her gut, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Monica stumbled backward all the while gasping for air as if she were some fish flopping about on land gasping but never receiving what it desperately needed—he took advantage of this and rushed forward to tackle her to ground. She collapsed underneath him still grappling for a breath. Not one to miss an opportunity, Manning brought his boney hands to her throat and began to squeeze with all his might.

Monica had heard about watching your life flash before your eyes before you died, had seen it happen to her favorite characters on television, and she even recalled reading about it once or twice. But as she laid there with her breath gone and not returning, she couldn't try hard enough to remember. Liars! They were all liars! Why couldn't she see them? She closed her eyes and tried harder for just one glimpse of her beautiful children, but all she could do was hear their voices. They spoke as if they were singing a melody. And it was beautiful to her tired mind.

She continued to gasp for air…

_We love you mommy!_ Monica wanted to give up; she wanted to die right there so that maybe she would be able to leave out of this nightmare. To escape this hell that her life had unfairly become. _You're not afraid, are you mommy?_ She was afraid, but even still, she began to struggle. If she gave up…what would that teach them? But what did it truly matter? _Mommy's the strongest person ever!_ Despite her conviction to die, her hands came up to grasp Manning's in an attempt to stop him, to at the very least try to save herself. _Mommy, what's wrong with daddy? Why is he so mad?_

Her eyes snapped open at that and she stared into Manning's hate filled ones. _Did we do something wrong?_ Monica tightened her grip on the offending hands and then moved her legs in an attempt to knee him in the crotch. It was all in vain. He remained upon her, pinning her down with all his weight while Monica struggled beneath him. _You'll never let anything happen to us, right, Mommy?_ Her vision began to blur and while she gasped in vain for air, she already knew that it was all moot at this point. Her arms fell down at her side in the symbolic fashion of waving a white flag to the enemy. Her sign of surrender. What more could be done?

She turned her head to the side for a final view of something other than the disgusting face of the wretched man and saw something that hadn't been there before. A large knife-like object was embedded into the dirt off to the side. A bone hilt and the barest of a flash of metal followed it while the rest was buried into the dirt. Monica could grasp it. It wasn't so far away. Her eyes faded in and out as her consciousness began to dim. She did not want to call it fate or destiny. She did not want to think that God was helping her when her children had not been shown the same courtesy. Monica took it as coincidence and nothing more for she was too afraid to think of anything else. With as much strength that she had left, which wasn't much at all, she moved her arm over to the knife with the bone handle and yanked it free. She turned back towards Manning.

He never noticed the knife in her hands until it was sunk deep into his thigh.

The man yowled in pain and removed his hands from her, now horribly bruised, neck and placed them over the bleeding wound that she had inflicted. Monica took the opportunity to fill her abused lungs with much need air causing them to inflate painfully. She gasped for a few precious moments before pulling back a long leg and kicking Manning in the abdomen as hard as she could. The older man flew backward onto his back gasping for air, just as she had earlier, and clutching his leg. Monica took in a few more deep breaths, the oxygen stung going in but was a much needed relief.

She wasted no time. With swift movements she was upon the pained man, pinning the knife against his jugular as she bared her teeth at him in an animalistic display. Manning dared not move as he felt the metal, cool against his skin as if it had been frozen in the coldest of pits, placed dangerously near the important vein that supplied blood for his brain. He glared up at her. The bitch.

Monica leaned down closer to his face, her eyes piercing into his. The knife's blade traced slow patterns into the soft flesh of his neck.

"Everyone wants to know," she began. "They all want to know why _the bitch_ did what she did." Manning tried to ignore the blade that danced across his skin in smooth, fluid motions. "You wanted to know why because you wanted there to be some common ground between us. If we were both the same, then you could identify with me and then, in turn, try to make me understand you as well."

"You stupid bi—."

The knife came up quick and pressed hard against the underside of his jaw. One hard slit and it would all be over. They both knew this. He silenced himself.

"But I'll tell you, Mr. Manning. I'll let you have the honor of being the only one who knows." She looked at him deeply. Studying every inch of his face. "Do you know how to truly kill someone, Mr. Manning?" He did not answer. "Of course, you've killed, but do you know the _right _way to kill someone?"

Monica knew that there was no _right_ way to kill someone because she knew that killing was wrong. But, if you were going to kill, there was only one true way to do it. It was the only fair way.

"There is only one way to kill someone. You look at that person, deeply while never breaking eye contact." The knife was pressed harder against him. "_Then_ you strike. You watch the life fade from their eyes, and you do this, Mr. Manning, so that their face will haunt you for the rest of your life. That's the price you pay for killing, the price I paid. I will forever remember my husband's face as he screamed in agony when the flames started to eat at his skin."

For a moment, Monica was lost in the image of her husband's tortured face. He had been crying. She looked down at Manning again. Picturing him burning in that chair instead of her late husband. It was a satisfying image. One she wished she could accomplish now, but she lacked the supplies needed.

"My husband was a very loving man." Manning flinched as the knife grazed him a bit too roughly but said nothing while she continued. "He loved me, and I loved him more than anything. I had gotten married so young that he was all I knew. About a year after we had been married, I became pregnant with twins and we were elated. We were so happy."

For the first time, in what had to have been years, Monica began to cry. It wasn't a wail, but just a steady stream of continuous tears flowing from her eyes, down her cheeks, and off her chin to fall onto Manning's heaving chest. Her lips quivered, but she held in any sounds of sorrow.

"Their room was done up, for I was having a little boy and a little girl, in a neutral yellow with two of everything. They're names were Joyce and James. The room we gave them was on the second floor of our house, just down the hall of ours." The tears continued on and on, following the same path made by the previous ones. "For two years, I was with my children. Loving them, watching them, teaching them. Then my husband started to change. He grew moodier and moodier and got jealous over small things." She paused and took in a deep breath.

"You said you wanted to know, Mr. Manning, and I'll tell you that the man I married was not the same man I killed. Or maybe he was. Maybe he just didn't like to share.

"One morning, I left the house with my husband watching our children. I kissed them each goodbye and told them I would see them in two hours. I was going shopping, Mr. Manning, for groceries. I came home two hours later to my house on fire." Her lips quivered even more and a sob escaped her. She tried to gain control of herself. Manning stirred in an effort to gain control over the situation, but Monica only pressed the blade deeper. "There wasn't one inch that wasn't engulfed in red flames. And-and I looked around to see if my children and my husband were out, and I couldn't see them. I went closer to the home, dropping any groceries I had, and heard screaming." Her eyes went out of focus for a moment as she went on. "I knocked down the front door and rushed inside. I called out to them.

"That's when I heard them screaming. They were screaming from upstairs and I just knew, _knew_, they were locked inside their room. I ran up the stairs coughing and calling out to them as fire and smoke consumed everything. When I reached their door, I called out again and I heard them. They sounded so close! It took me five lunges to get the door to crack open. Five. And the room was empty aside from fire eating at the walls and the furniture! I called out again and they responded, screaming for me." Monica's face was contorted to a look of rage as she continued on. "Then I realized that they were locked in the attic, Mr. Manning. Placed just above their room. I moved to go to the attic ladder, but I was pulled back by firemen, dragged out of my burning house, and then watched as that house collapsed on itself with my children still inside."

More sobs escaped her and she couldn't even stop her body from shaking. But still, ever vigilant, she kept the knife trained on the underside of his jaw. Her mind was breaking in pieces and no one would ever be able to tape back together the broken mess. The pieces would never fit perfectly again; they were too bloated and stretched from overuse. The knife was pressed so hard against his soft flesh that a trickle of blood fell from the wound she created.

"My husband had been found outside. Laughing. I screamed at him that the children were dead and demanded why he did not get them out! But he just kept laughing!" Anger returned to her face replacing the sadness, and her eyes turned hard while the tear flow lessened. "They told me he was in shock. Took him to see a therapist to talk it out. There are many men out there who can lie, Mr. Manning, but none like my husband apparently. For he didn't just lie, he _acted._ As though he were in a Shakespearean play! He claimed he had been outside when the fire had started and tried to get back in before passing out from the smoke.

"Mr. Manning, my children were two years old. They couldn't have reached the drawstring that pulled down the attic ladder. They could not have climbed up the stairs. But, my children's death will always be dubbed an accident. When I saw my husband again, he told me that it was okay. That we could start over and have newer, better children…and the rest is how everyone else knows it."

She was so angry. And that anger enjoyed dancing with the insanity already present and caused a tango of different emotions to bubble inside of her. Dangerous emotions enjoying a vibrant dance.

"We're not the same, Mr. Manning. For justice was on the side of those women you killed when you were arrested, but it was not on my children's side when _I_ was. Yes, we both killed." The blade pressed deeper, harder into his skin and the man yelped and clawed at her hands, but she didn't seem to notice. "But you had justice…and I had to create it. I regret nothing. I am sorry for nothing. And if I have to be killed by those _things_ because of my sense of justice and honor! Well, so be it." The man squirmed underneath her grip while grasping at her wrist to move the knife away from such a sensitive area. "But you'll die by my hands, Mr. Manning. And guess what," she leaned in close, putting more weight on the knife, "I won't regret that either…"

_I'll forever remember your face, though. As is right when partaking in the action of killing._

It happened so quick that Monica didn't even think he felt much, which came as a shame for he deserved much more. The blade had moved quickly across his throat and there was a moment when he gasped for air, clutching at her while blood gushed forth from his throat. And then it was over. The man lay in his own blood while the color in his eyes drained. Monica, true to her beliefs, never broke eye contact with him until he was dead.

She kept on top of him watching him as if he would get back up and strike at her. He never did. Beside her, Lucille materialized, though her once haggard appearance was no more. She had returned to the same woman as before—in Monica's mind at least. She gave Monica a smile before echoing Monica's own thoughts out loud.

_Where did you get that knife?_ Was all she asked before she faded into nothing and Monica was left alone.

Where, indeed.

Not a moment later, they dropped heavily to the jungle's floor. Heavy thumps signaling their arrival. They had not bothered to cloak themselves. Monica stood and moved off of the dead body of Manning and turned towards them.

There were three. The largest stood at the forefront while his two friends remained behind him. She studied them closely. Large, muscled beings that could rip her head clean off her shoulder in one fluid movement. These beings that had come to her planet and dominated it for the high it gave them. And, as she had heard from one of the complaining guards on the way here, had even claimed a few women as sex partners for their used down towards the southern part of the United States.

She waited, staring at them intently, studying each one in particular when she noticed something. One of them was gone. The smallest of the three. It had happened so quickly and quietly that she must not have noticed his disappearance while examining the other two. Where the hell had he gone?

Just as she was about to circle around in an attempt to catch him sneaking behind her, she felt something.

It was just a prick, it didn't even hurt, at the side of her neck. And then it vanished and Monica was left feeling disoriented and confused.

Then her world was merely black and her mind, for the first time in ages, was at peace.

* * *

_"It had a spell put on it by an old Fakir," said the Sergeant-Major, "a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow…"_

* * *

A/N: After much dwelling on the subject in my thinkers pose, and receiving a few pouty faces, I have decided that there will be a sort of sequel containing this character. Of course, it won't be up for awhile. Not until I am finished with Entitlement (which has about four more chapters or so).

This is the end for The Hearse Song. I'm really sad that I ended it because I enjoyed writing it so much, but it just needed to end. I didn't want this story to drag on and on because that wasn't how it was supposed to be. It was intended to help me with my writer's block and to help me broach subjects that I didn't have the best knowledge of and to delve deep into the psych of people as they lost their sanity. I hope all of you have enjoyed it as much as I did. Thank you for taking the time to read and review.

Been a fun ride! See you next time

~LadyB

Oh, P.S.: The quote is from The Monkey's Paw


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